


And Heaven, Too (All This)

by purpjools



Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [17]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Derogatory Language, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-Con (Past), M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mild Gore, Radio, Slice of Life, Stress Baking, Threats of Violence, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: Alastor fears no man.He should know. He's been put through the proverbial wringer time and time again. His fears border on the primal, with roots caked firmly in reality rather than superstition.He is the harbinger of death. The pernicious herald of malice.Or so he reminds himself as he stares down his greatest foe yet:A cheery-if one were to anthropomorphize it-andseeminglyinnocuous, felt box.(In other words: Alastor is a hopeless, melodramatic fool and this is his come-to-Jesus moment)
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Minor or Background Relationship(s), Past Implied Angel Dust/Others
Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558
Comments: 111
Kudos: 104





	1. Hard to Translate

An audible click, followed by a thump.

Static.

“Hello and good evening, dear listeners! For all you sinners just tuning in, this is Alastor, your Radio Demon, here with somebody just beyond beguiling. I’m tickled to announce our guest today, and it’s none other than the most esteemed erotic entertainer, Angel Dust! Why, as evidenced by all the letters, art, and, _ahem_ , stories, he’s been the most requested guest since, well, anyone!”

Static.

“Now, sweetheart, be a dear and greet our listeners.”

Alastor grins as Angel shrugs off his jacket, exposing an indecent amount of freckled skin. He flicks out his tongue playfully. Alastor barely suppresses the shiver crawling down his spine. His blood redirects southward.

Thank the deities for radio.

Angel smirks. Alastor’s trousers tighten in Pavlovian response. He brushes his lips tantalizingly close to the microphone.

“Thanks for havin’ me, Al.”

In more ways than one.

“It’s my _pleasure_ ,” he purrs.

“I’ll bet it is.”

In the corner of his eye, Moxxie flails his arms. He slices a hand across his throat in warning.

Rolling his eyes, Alastor recalls their earlier conversation.

* * *

“Let’s not repeat the hot mic debacle, sir,” he said, wringing his hands. “The sponsors will not appreciate it.”

No matter that Lucifer and his burgeoning empire made up the majority of their backing, and was by far their most generous donor. Alastor shrugged.

Apparently, the rest of the sponsors and the FCC trusted him as far as they could throw him.

“Fine,” he said. Moxxie breathed a sigh of relief, while despondent, twin “awws” echoed from the corner of the room. Loona grunted.

“No shit,” she said, without bothering to look up from her phone, “but letting Pervert here slang his wang might just net us the biggest listener base yet.”

“Are…are you suggesting we _pimp_ Alastor out?”

She hummed. “C’mon, Moxx, The Radio Demon boning Hazbin’s feature dancer? On-air? Again? That’s, like, ratings gold.”

“This isn’t 666 news, Loona!” Moxxie sputtered. Alastor idly observed the bulging vein in his temple. He opened his mouth to suggest a doctor for that-Rosie-but was beaten to the punch.

“No one’s going to pimp Al out, Loony,” Blitzo said, grinning. “I mean, not yet. Fuck losing this sweet gig! I don’t know about you, but rent’s due soon and I’m not offering my dick or holes to that filthy rich motherfucker! Emphasis on the filthy part.”

“Again,” Loona drawled.

“Right!”

Alastor grimaced. He suppressed a shudder. “That would be dreadful,” he concurred. Blitzo merely nodded in solidarity, having learned his lesson from the ill-received fist bump he attempted earlier.

“You guys are so fucking weird.”

Moxxie buried his head in his hands. Alastor sighed, leaning back in his chair.

That didn’t even cover the half of it.

* * *

Now, he laughs.

It booms, an echoic reverberation pulsing through the airwaves.

“Now, now, Angel! None of that! This is to be a clean interview! No tomfoolery or untowardness whatsoever!”

“Except,” Alastor purrs, his hand inching out and settling over Angel’s perfectly manicured ones, “it’s rather difficult to censor oneself and adhere to such rules and regulations in front of the most beautiful creature in the world.”

Someone gags behind him. Judging by Moxxie’s face, Alastor knows very well who. His grin morphs into a shit-eating one as he laces their fingers together and guides their conjoined hands to his mouth. He kisses Angel’s knuckles.

“Aw, Al! You’re such a charmer! Bet ya say that to all the girls, huh?”

Alastor winks. “Not at all.”

Another retch.

Alastor reluctantly releases his hand. “In any case, I’m sure I _exhausted_ you last time you were on the show, and as I recall, the _bombardment_ of questions left you positively _spilling_ with…”

A pause, pregnant.

“Answers.”

The brat grins, unfazed as always. “Oh, yeah,” Angel says, smirk widening. “I took a huge poundin’ last time”-in the corner, Moxxie hacks on his spit-“from your questions.”

He bats his eyes, grinning coquettishly. “Take it easier on a guy this go-around, won’t ya?”

“Oh, darling,” Alastor coos, shifting in a way that brings a glint to Angel’s wicked leer. He presses his lips against the microphone, producing a mechanical puff.

“I’ll do my utmost,” comes the sinuous lie.

“Mmm. I’m sure ya will.”

To his utter delight, Angel matches him riposte to thrust. They keep up the slinging rapport, covering all sorts of subjects, from Angel’s workplace and related shenanigans to his other, lucrative endeavors.

“The listeners were so titillated by your stories last time. Do you have any other riveting tales to tell?”

“Sure. I had a regular the other day whack off to the sound of my voice.”

“Oh? And what were you reciting? A grocery list? Shopping receipt?”

Behind them, Loona groans. Millie giggles.

“Eh, not exactly. He just wanted me to describe, in detail, how small his cock was.”

Blitzo chokes.

Alastor furrows his brow. “And do people usually find that arousing?”

“ _He_ does. Anyway, get this: after he was finished, he thanked me, tipped me-everyone pays upfront for private shows-then went to the hospital to wait for his wife to give birth.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Angel grins. He spins in his chair, stretching. Bare, freckled skin assaults Alastor’s vision. He presses the heel of his hand against the front of his trousers.

“Did I stutter, baby?”

Alastor matches his mischievous smile. “No, I suppose not.”

He shrugs. “Well, I’m sure it’s small potatoes considerin’ what your day job is. I mean, Al, baby, ya could read the phone book and I’d still cream my panties.”

Moxxie emits an impressively high pitched whine. It’s an uncanny imitation of a steam whistle.

“Can I say that on air? Cream?”

Alastor chuckles. “Well, I don’t see why not!” he booms, to another one of Moxxie’s shrill noises and his rapidly declining mental condition.

Angel folds his hands together under his chin. He leans forward. “Ya can always just spank me if I misbehave,” he coos.

Alastor’s eyes gleam. “Duly noted,” he rumbles, failing to keep the ooze of desire from his voice.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Blitzo mutters. Alastor magnanimously ignores it.

“And is that the strangest occurrence you’ve had thus far?”

“At work, or?”

“Life, I mean. In general.”

The corner of Angel’s painted mouth quirks up. “Nah. In my experience, there’s always a weirder situation.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I dunno,” he says, batting his lashes, “I mean, I met this sexy guy a while back”-Alastor’s eye involuntarily twitches-“and ended up livin’ with him. Share a bedroom now, too. It’s been real domestic, if ya get my drift.”

Alastor barks out a laugh as realization dawns on his face. He smirks, resting his chin on his hand. “Oh? And did he _defile_ you?”

Moxxie looks five seconds away from a heart attack. Or an implosion. Alastor would take pity on him, was he the type of man. Unfortunately for him and the rest of the pearl-clutching sponsors, he is most assuredly not.

Undeterred, Angel rolls with the punch. “Yeah. Yeah, he sure did.”

At this juncture, most of his regular listeners would have probably cottoned on to the tease.

“So what do you recall of your relationship prior to this? Before the intimate living situation? Surely you weren’t all too familiar with him from the get-go.”

What pitches him off guard is the sudden silence.

It settles over them like a queer fog. From the corner of his eye, Alastor catches Loona lowering her phone. Blitzo and Millie lean closer. Moxxie furrows his brow but remains still.

Then, Angel says, quietly enough that it’s almost missed by the microphone:

“He saved my pig.”

Oh.

Alastor’s stomach does a jig and a flip. He stares intently into Angel’s face, who refuses to meet his eyes. A soft blush travels up his neck like smoke. It bleeds into his cheeks, a subdued sunset behind a galaxy of dappled skin.

Alastor was sure he forgot.

How foolish, he thinks, plucking at one of the thoughts running rampant through his head.

Angel would never forget such a near cataclysmic event.

They just hadn’t spoken about it until now. Which is understandable, all things considered.

There were allusions made about the occasion; brief mentions and the like. But they have never truly discussed it in detail. To Alastor, it was one of the more minor events in their storied past. And truth be told, he’s reluctant to revisit his life before Angel. Thus, the memories mix and blur together like a watercolor painting caught in the rain.

Before he can say anything, Angel clears his throat. “Anyway, that’s my weirdest story to date.” He nudges Alastor’s leg and smiles.

“Satisfied?”

The rhetorical question is teasing, but fondness infuses his voice. Alastor exhales slowly through his nose. He returns the grin.

“Indubitably.”

As he files away a mental note to revisit the subject later, he extends his arm and sews Angel’s fingers through his.

Hands fitted tightly together, they banter back and forth until time runs out.

* * *

They’re mere seconds into their break when Angel stands up and parks his bottom down on Alastor’s lap.

“Oh, babe,” he breathes. He reaches over and twines their fingers together, peppering kisses up his throat. “You’re wearing the tie I bought ya.”

His bespectacled eyes shine with barely disguised mirth. “Of course, sweetheart. I’d wear it every day if it were kosher! Everything you gift me is wonderful.”

Angel bites his lip. “Yeah? Ya mean that, baby?”

“Of course I do.”

Alastor suffuses his voice with indulgent warmth. With a start, Moxxie realizes that throughout the highs and lows of the man’s career, he’s never heard him speak in such a disarming manner.

He’s a bit discombobulated that he almost sounds, well, _sweet_.

Moxxie resists the insatiable urge to slam his head into the wall.

In the prime of his life and already losing his mind.

Go figure.

“So,” Angel says, flashing a cheeky grin at everyone. “The Radio Demon. That’s pretty sexy, babe.”

“Oh, don’t remind me. It was a ridiculous appellation that Rosie and I came up with one inebriated night.”

His voice lowers, but the headphones amplify the sound. Moxxie isn’t sure if that’s a boon or not. Slowly, Alastor lets his forehead drop onto Angel’s chest. The microphone swallows up the hushed words before spitting them out.

“I don’t mean for this to come out the wrong way, but thank you for coming on my show. It means so much to me to be able to share this part of me with you.” He pauses before regrouping.

“I’ve mentioned it, en passant, and I’m not lying when I say that you are the best partner, the best _friend_ , that I have ever had. Thank you, darling, for sticking with me.”

Angel’s throat bobs. From his vantage point, it looks to Moxxie that his eyes glisten, but the intimate way he cradles Alastor’s face and touches their foreheads together trivializes that keen observation. Angel’s hands fold around Alastor’s nape.

The wires tangle. The headphones tuck behind their ears as they meet in the middle.

“Face it, babe. You’re stuck with me,” Angel whispers before kissing him. The microphones absorb the slow, nebulous sounds of their unrestrained affection.

“Get used to it.”

From his chair, Blitzo holds his phone up, recording-or trying to record-the whole interaction. For some bizarre and unexplained reason, any video of Alastor appears corrupted during playback, and neither he nor Loona, the second tech-savviest person in the building, could pinpoint the cause. Not that Moxxie spends his time surreptitiously filming Alastor. He’s better things to do.

Millie, though, not so much.

She adores him. Both hailing from the deep South, they frequently exchange cooking tips and carp about northern sensibilities, or lack thereof. Millie will occasionally drop off ribs and grits at his house while Moxxie waits in the car, and would invariably return with plastic containers of gumbo and etouffee. Sometimes, Alastor’s neighbor will spot them and shuffle back out with a gallon plastic bag’s worth of banana lumpia.

Moxxie lives for those exchanges.

His stomach grumbles at the fond memories. Suddenly conscious of the time, he makes the egregious mistake of looking up.

The on-air sign is still lit.

Moxxie gurgles.

Loona grabs him before he intervenes. She places a finger over her pursed lips.

The sound continues.

“I love you.”

Moxxie averts his eyes, but his ears, like the rest of the rapt listeners out there in the great beyond, remain unshuttered.

* * *

After the brief interlude, they open up the phone lines for listener questions.

It’s uncommon for Alastor to host these types of interactions, but the sponsors thought it would be a fun, nostalgic touch. They considered it “demystifying” and that doing so would help expose the man behind the curtain, whatever that meant. Alastor snapped back with the rebuttal that he was, in fact, The Radio Demon, and in no way was that nom de guerre meant to resemble a human guise.

At least on the airwaves.

Moxxie rushed to placate them. He proposed a limit to callers, and successfully negotiated them down to a scant six people, with the acceptable proposal that Alastor was free to decline to answer any questions he deemed inappropriate. The sponsors hemmed and hawed, but in the end, they agreed to the terms.

Begrudgingly, Alastor acquiesced.

“Now, on to our callers! Good evening, Caller Number One! What’s your poison?”

“Yeah, hi. I gotta couple of questions for To-er, _Angel_. First, are ya comin’ to Small Joe’s baptism next week, and second, why the hell are ya still with this assho-”

A higher-pitched, effervescent voice cuts in. “What Frankie means to say is, ‘We miss ya!’ Don’t be a stranger! You too, Al! Daddy says to invite ya both over for dinner again!”

“Daddy-and there’s only _one_ daddy in this damn house, let me make that clear, ya jackhole-does _not_ goddamn say,” growls another gruff voice before the first caller interjects.

“Please, dammit,” he hisses, “don’t leave me high and dry with these assholes!”

“Bye, To-uh, Angel! We love ya! See ya soon! Kisses!”

The line ends with an audible click. A resounding one heard around the silent room.

Alastor clears his throat.

“Splendid! On to caller number two!”

Loona dutifully presses the button and allows the caller through.

Which turns out to be a grave mistake.

“Okay, assface, I’m up to _here_ with your shit! Ya can’t just play hooky with our premier dancer whenever ya feel like fu-”

“Haha! It looks like we accidentally tapped into the moron frequency! Happens so often nowadays, what with the resurgence of vacuous and asinine television! One wonders what sort of proprietor would allow that sort of prattle! Certainly not the mentally impaired buffoon that owns 666 news! Or maybe?”

“Listen here, asshole, I don’t give two shits if it’s Valen-”

The line goes dead.

Alastor whistles as he scoots his chair back from Loona’s desk. Moxxie, on the other hand, is apparently suffering a conniption.

“Why aren’t we vetting the callers?” he hisses at his coworkers. Loona and Blitzo shrug. The latter points a finger at Millie, who sheepishly grins.

“They seemed normal at first,” she insists.

“Anywho!” Alastor sing songs. “Two down, four more to go!”

Perhaps the sponsors were right, if not accurate.

A deluge of calls floods their single line. Eager fans bombard the station. Three relatively normal callers find themselves on the air. The questions range from the classically mundane (“When did you first meet?” Alastor answers with an honest anecdote about a mansion party and a blindfolded boy that prompts incredulous stares from his coworkers and a secret smile from Angel) to the sexually specific (“What’s the best and biggest toy for anal play that you recommend for a lonely guy?” Angel deadpans, “Alastor” to an amused audience).

They play off each other in teasing bouts, each parlay more quick-witted than the last.

Their repartee continues swimmingly, until the last question of the early evening.

“Yes, thank you for calling. Now, folks, onward to the final caller of the day! Please state your name, dear, and the last question you have for Angel Dust!”

“Er, it’s Karen,” says a tinny, familiar voice. Alastor raises his brow, glancing at Angel. His boyfriend frowns, tilting his head as if to pinpoint the voice.

“Yeah, Karen. Anyway, a buncha listeners wanted to know,” she says loudly to mask the muffled speaking in the background, “if ya, well, are considering marriage.”

Alastor certainly doesn’t mean to, and he’ll deny it until his dying day, but a mechanical screech blasts into the microphone. Unfortunately, it’s far too late to muzzle the loaded question. After gathering all his fleeting courage back into his bones, Alastor sneaks a peek at Angel.

His boyfriend is flushed pink, all over.

Before he can even begin to organize his chaotic, sprawling thoughts and much less answer, a familiar voice in the background interrupts the call.

“Vel, what the hell are ya doin’? Val! Are ya both goddamn serious right now? Jesus Chri-”

The call ends.

But the damage is done.

Alastor flounders up the proverbial creek without a paddle. He laughs. Judging by his coworker’s faces, it might have sounded a tad deranged.

He hacks into a fist. “Anywho! What a delightful prank call! Well, I suppose that can’t be helped, we regrettably only had time for one more serious-”

“We ain’t gettin’ married.”

“What?”

All five mouths move simultaneously in a Greek chorus.

Angel leans forward, touching his lips to the microphone. “I said, we ain’t gettin’ married.”

Alastor freezes, as if in headlights. His stomach drops to the floor. The tone sounds wistful; melancholic. Moxxie looks at them as if he can’t be the only one whose ears perked at that wretched, lingering note. Angel slumps, chewing at his lip. His flush darkens and travels to the tips of his ears.

However, as an entertainer through and through, he rebounds and regains a faux air of good cheer.

“Sorry to burst your bubbles, babes. The Radio Demon just ain’t the marryin’ type.”

He wasn’t.

Marriage was bête noire to him, long before Angel.

The operative word being, before.

The insincerity of it all cracks open Alastor’s chest. Something unnatural, foreign, spills out and mixes with the soupy mess in his stomach. Angel continues, smiling in that empty way where his eyes don’t crinkle.

“It’s just a stupid license anyway. We don’t need no damn piece of paper to prove how much we love each other or that we’re gonna stay together.”

Bolstered by some act of bravery, his voice strengthens at the end.

Steadies.

Alastor reaches out and rests his hand over his. His fingertips brush the beds of his painted nails. Angel flips his hand. He lays it on the desk, palm to palm.

Lifeline to lifeline.

“We’re definitely stayin’ together,” he says, so sure. Alastor marvels at his conviction, and the unyielding belief writ large in his face.

“Because we love each other. An’ sometimes,” he says, trailing off. He meets Alastor’s open gaze.

He smiles. His mismatched eyes crinkle as his cheeks bunch.

“Sometimes, it’s as simple as that.”

* * *

Alastor blusters through the ending.

He wraps up as quickly as possible, partially focused on the time, but mostly on Angel.

As usual.

“Well, that’s it for our show tonight, listeners! Many thanks for tuning into our surreptitious little frequency. This is The Radio Demon, and Angel Dust, signing off. Until next time. And, as always, good night.”

 _On air_

The sign blinks off.

Moxxie wheezes out a long sigh. He collapses into a chair. “Oh, crumbs. I think my life’s been shortened by at least a decade.”

“Good job, ya’ll! Honestly, I thought I preferred the X-rated version, but this one was so much better!” Millie trills.

Blitzo lounges back in his chair, spinning. “Preferred the porn, but okay. Could’ve done with more thrustie, less talkie, but whatever tickles your penis.”

“Pickle,” Alastor and Moxxie correct.

“Whatever.”

Angel yawns. He stands up and stretches to his full height, which is towering. The heels add an extravagant touch to the glorious picture. Alastor’s palm flies to his crotch and presses down.

“Since we ain’t fuck up anythin’ tonight, are we free to go? Nothin’ against you guys, but we got a dinner to go to, and a goirl’s gotta get ready.”

“Yep. Free to go.”

Alastor follows suit and pushes off his chair.

He organizes all his tools for the next show, taking great pains to spray and disinfect them. As he wipes down the microphone, he snatches snippets of conversation between Angel and Loona.

“I think I lost all my teeth from all the fucking cavities you guys gave me. Pretty impressive, asshole.”

“I try. When are ya gonna get your own show?”

“Pssh. When pigs fly.”

“Blitzo’s gettin’ his pilot's license?”

“Hey!”

Arms circle around his waist. Alastor turns around and is greeted by a stunning sight. He tiptoes, then kisses Angel, open-mouthed and molasses sweet and slow.

He smiles against his lips.

Angel slips a hand into Alastor’s back pocket. Squeezing his ass, he corrals him towards the exit. The knob turns, and a rough breeze flings the door open.

He pushes them both out past the threshold, and into the receding sea of lamplights.

* * *

The car whips past the rows of coniferous trees.

Angel sequesters the discontent deep down, where the rest of his insecurities reside. The whole drive back, he loosely holds Alastor’s wrist and listens to his sonorous crooning with half a mind. The bones under his fingers glide and shift with the car. He gazes into the deep embryonic nighttime beyond, catching flashes of his reflection between the columnar streetlights and buzzing, neon signs. The rain let up just before they left the studio. Now, the roads glisten like oil slicks under the path of bright headlights.

The car hums, heat billowing from the dusty slats atop the dashboard. The radio is off, but Alastor, as always, fills in the empty spaces. Angel tunes him out as the hole in his chest spreads.

Like a cancerous growth.

_Marriage._

Angel is not stupid. He knows he’s not anyone’s first choice.

And yet, a hopeful, insensible part of him believed that Travis would leave his wife. That Valentino would eventually come to his senses. That the long string of men between them and Alastor would one day wake up and deem him worthy, somehow.

If he recalled, the last caustic sentence he allowed Travis to string together before he left for good was, “Ain’t no one stupid enough to wife up a whore.”

Apparently, that self-same stupidity transcended time and space and memory, because he ended up literally groveling at Angel’s feet the next night before Vox banned his dumb ass from the club. Valentino was not the marrying type, either. At first, Angel thought he struck gold with the frivolous gestures and those saccharine little lies.

Hindsight is, most profusely, a bitch.

And Angel _is_ strong.

But maybe strength doesn’t mean having to shoulder all that weight alone.

As he watches the landscape meld into recognizable scenery, he sinks into another patchwork memory.

 _The bass thumped against the paper-thin walls, compounding his headache. Blinded by the pain and from the vanity mirror lights, Angel snorted up the last of the crushed pills, then licked the residue off the metal mint container. A locker clanged nearby. He cursed. The girl returned the jab, but Angel was far too spent and high to retaliate._

_He stared at his red-rimmed eyes in the mirror._

_Maybe Valentino and Travis and everyone else were-_

_Right, he thought, blinking back tears. His throat shut around a sob, fingers entangled in his rosary._

_“Angel!” Velvet barked. The door flung outward as throbbing sounds permeated the room._

_“You’re on!” She shimmied out of her outfit, exposing swathes of tattooed skin. “Tom just called ya!”_

_Huffing, he double-checked his makeup._

_Eh._

_His pupils were pinpricked, and his mascara smudged and clumped on the bottom lashes, but the club was dark. And if by chance anyone noticed, he could blame it on the drugs._

_Another half-truth._

_He did say he was good at those._

_Angel kicked the pendulous door open and followed the sound of speakers announcing his arrival._

_“Let’s welcome our notorious, perpetually late, but money well spent, feature dancer, Angel Dust!”_

_Angel flipped his middle finger up in the direction of the DJ booth (“Someone’s in a spicy mood, meow!) and climbed on stage. Criminy lifted her brow as she hopped off. She held out her mat. Angel shook his head._

_He didn’t need it. His knees were already sufficiently bruised from all the genuflection._

_Story of his life._

_As he swanned into the limelight with a confidence he was too numb to feel, Angel painted on a grin and gripped the pole tight._

_The first song started._

_Right, he thought again. The men clambered at his feet, hooting and jeering with dirty dollars clenched in their fists. He hooked his leg around the pole and spun._

_And spun, and spun._

_He floated above the din, dizzy in a foggy, reckless high. Angel landed gracefully on his knees. He bent over, sluggishly crawled on all fours, and bounced his ass up and down. The crowd cheered. The papery skin of a crumpled bill fluttered on his exposed cheeks before gliding off._

_All this attention, whispered the derisive voice inside his skull._

_And never from the one he wanted the most._

“Dear?”

Angel jumps.

Alastor’s hand snakes to his thigh. Abruptly, he realizes that they’ve stopped. Alastor gazes at him, the ever-present smile lit up like a beacon on his face. His other hand reaches out and tucks a stray hair behind the shell of Angel’s ear.

It tickles.

“We’re home.”

Even as he swoons, Angel’s chest tightens. His heart swells, but the barbs of its cage gnaw into the hubristic flesh, deflating it back down to size. Smothering expectations into ash.

Right, Angel thinks, again.

Who in their right mind would want to marry him anyway?

* * *

He does not shake.

His fingers tremble as he closes them around the square box. He’s a fool, he knows it, and at this point in time, everyone else does.

He tries not to agonize over it but is admittedly doing an abysmal job.

“Just relax, man. You’ll do fine.” Husk straightens his lapel. “Did I ever tell ya that I proposed to Niffty buck ass naked and wasted?”

Through the walls, Alastor listens to the sound of running water, punctuated by throaty warbles.

He snorts. “The latter is a given, Husker.” He adjusts his tie, pushing the knot up higher. Husk tsks. He whacks his hands away and lowers it back down.

“Don’t choke yourself, dickhead. I know ya feel like dying, but somehow I don’t think you’d be able to escape the kid, even in hell.”

Alastor swallows. He checks his reflection in the mirror.

“Do I look all right?”

“The color brings out your skin tone. Ya look fucking fine, princess. Stop fishing.”

He huffs. “I’m not-”

Husk holds up a hand. “Save it for your fiancé.”

“If he agrees. We haven’t yet arrived at that junction.” He undoes his cufflinks before jiggling his arm. Then, methodically, he weaves them back through the holes.

He most certainly does not shake.

“Whatever,” Husk says, shrugging. He yawns, scooting his bottom on the bed before flopping down. In Alastor’s spot. His eye twitches. Clearing his throat, Alastor adjusts his glasses and returns to scrutinizing.

“What time are ya checking in?”

Instead of answering, Alastor rifles through his pockets and holds out an envelope. He waits until Husk reaches out, then flings it with a sure swipe of his wrist. It smacks him square on the nose.

Bullseye, he thinks, satisfaction purring in his stomach. His smile reflects that.

Husk snarls. Still, he plucks it off the sheets and holds it up to the light.

He whistles.

“Goddamn, this is some swanky shit. Hey, if he says no, call me up and I’ll mosey on over. We can drink our sorrows away in that infinity tub or whatever the fuck that is. Fuck this house, am I right?”

He means it as a joke.

To Alastor, it is decidedly not. The gravity of the titanic situation comes crashing down. His shoulders slump like Atlas under the weight of the world.

Sensing the swift change in mood, Husk attempts the salvage what’s left of the conversation, and his battered ego.

“Not like he’s gonna say no!” Husk frantically pivots. He jerks back up into a sitting position. “Look, just. I dunno. Be yourself. But not all the way. Be yourself, but less,” he trails off before rallying, “murder-y.”

“Be myself but don’t be myself? Sage advice, Husker, as per usual,” he dryly intones, voice belying his roiling insides.

Husk sighs, scratching his nape. “That came out wrong. Look, Al. It’ll be fine.”

Alastor hates that word.

“Just have some faith.”

He’s beginning to abhor that one just as equally.

“And if it’s not, ya can borrow my ass for the night.” Alastor gags. “Or that one dude with the scar. Vox? I’m sure he’ll let ya diddle him.”

He shoots Husk a withering glare. “I’d rather take my chances with Rosie.”

“Fuck _that_. I’d rather shove my dick in a bear trap.”

For a moment, they both savor the silence.

Then: “Fine. You can stop haranguing me now,” Alastor sniffs primly. He takes a long, last look at his reflection. He meets Husk’s inquiring stare in the mirror. After a beat, the idiot wolf-whistles.

Alastor can’t help it. He laughs.

Husk joins in, snickering.

“Was that an un-fuck you? ‘Cause I’ll take it.”

“Hope springs eternal, Husker.”

After the buoyant moment, he hoists himself up, groaning like the old man he is. He rests his hand on Alastor’s shoulder.

“Good luck, pal,” he says, squeezing before letting go.

“Don’t wait up,” Alastor says, in lieu of a thank you.

As soon as he leaves, he releases a long exhale. Alastor perches on the edge of the bed, vibrating from frayed nerves. He drums his fingers on the mattress. Fat Nuggets curls up between his legs, and he buffets the piglet’s sides with his ankles. Andouille snores in the corner. He slips a hand inside his pocket and traces the rounded corners of the felt box. His heart pounds, percussive and erratic against his ribcage.

Red spots bloom in his peripherals. He squeezes his eyes shut, and regulates his breathing. There’s a trick to lowering his blood pressure, and he attempts it now. The thunder in his ears gradually abates as time passes.

From somewhere beyond his concentration, the door clicks open.

Invisible plumes of vanilla and rose tickle his nose. At the fragrant scent, he opens his eyes and looks up.

Angel holds out a hand.

Alastor, dumbstruck, takes it.

* * *

They wait outside the restaurant as the taxi peels away.

Angel hops impatiently on his heels, kicking up the gravel. Their conjoined hands swing between them. Alastor’s knuckles graze the silken fabric of his dress.

That ceaseless, celestial sea stretches above them. Unlike the bayous of Louisiana, the city lights mar the sky. Their silhouettes reach and elongate in the aqueous illumination.

Angel turns his head, his features backlit and haloed by the droning marquee.

Alastor cannot remember when he’d been this devout.

If all the sights thereafter were to consist of this, just this, he thinks he can die a contented man.

Compelled by the stars, Alastor moves forward, feet aimed towards his future.

One step.

Two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Title from Florence and the Machine's "All This and Heaven Too".
> 
> 2\. Alastor needs exactly four extra babysitters as per the FCC (Federal Communications Commission).


	2. All My Stumbling Phrases

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All tags for this chapter listed after "Idiots in Love": canon-typical violence, threats of violence, implied past non-con, mild gore, stress baking

“Smiles?”

Alastor jolts. The table judders as his shin slams against the leg.

“What?” he says, louder and an octave higher than normal. “What did you call me?”

“Um, Al?”

Angel stares at him, fork hovering halfway to his lips. Around them, the other diners converse in hushed tones over the melodious piano notes. The meager candlelight flickers between them. The shadows play among the concerned features of Angel’s face, illuminating and emphasizing his frown.

“Are ya okay? Did the waiter get your steak wrong again? I can call him over and get them to fix it.”

Alastor plasters on a smile. The corners of his lips ache.

“No, darling, it’s fine, thank you. I can hear the cow moo from here!”

He lifts his fork and knife, preparing to cut his dinner on the bias. The knife misses completely and lands somewhere in the mountainous region of the potatoes. His fork tines clang as they hit the plate.

Angel slits his eyes. “You’re not high again, are ya?”

Alastor shakes his head, loosening congealed thoughts. He laughs once before coughing from the sudden influx of air.

“Not in the least, my dear!” he wheezes, reaching for the water. “Just a touch out of sorts, but nothing that can’t be easily remedied!”

He smothers a wince at his booming projection. The other diners shoot him a mixture of glares, curious glances, and appreciative nods. The latter, directed at his dinner companion.

“Okay,” Angel says, skeptically. He resumes eating. Mimicking him, Alastor picks at his food. The fork scrapes the plate with each half-hearted pass. The silence returns, another fog of unsaid words, as the music drowns out the crowd, but Alastor keeps his peace. Everything jumbles and tangles in his mind. He wars with an unseen and wholly alien enemy.

Doubt.

His stomach dives. He swallows the encroaching bile as it bubbles in his throat. It’s too much, and all at once.

“Al?”

His fork lands with a soft thud on the tablecloth as it drops. A warm hand ensconces his, shielding his knuckles. Fingers massage slow, concentric circles where his forefinger slopes into his thumb.

Until the spots fade from his eyes.

“I know you’re tired, babe,” Angel murmurs. “Did ya wanna call it a night and take out a doggie bag?”

Alastor’s head snaps up. “No!” he practically shouts. The party next to them recoils at the sudden outburst.

He coughs. “I mean, no. No, my dear. I’m fine. Just thinking about,” he flaps his hand uselessly in the air, “things.”

He is, without doubt, the world’s biggest blithering idiot.

But somehow, thanks to his unusually good fortune or the wine, Angel grins instead. The mischievous flicker returns to his eyes. Something rubs against his trouser leg.

“I bet I can wake ya up,” he purrs.

Alastor jumps as it travels up his leg, wandering past his knee, before landing firmly square on his cock. Angel’s foot draws intoxicating patterns on his shaft, trailing his toes to the underside of his cock and back up. His toes caress the head. In any other circumstance, Alastor would relish in the exhibitionistic foreplay.

Unfortunately, his budding excitement will have to take a rain check.

He gently tucks two fingers under Angel’s arch. “I’m sorry, darling. I’m a tad tuckered out from our earlier activities.”

It’s as bald-faced of a lie as any, but it has its basis in truth. They enjoyed a sordid Valentine’s Day romp earlier in the garage (if Alastor was not aware that they even manufactured well-placed holes in undergarments before then, he sure was now) before making their way into the living room, which turned into a damp affair when Husk banished them to the shower. In any case, Angel accepts the fib.

He laughs. Alastor’s traitorous heart skips at the sound. Angel glides his foot back down. After slipping back into his heels, his foot paws with Alastor’s ankle under the table.

“Yeah, babe. Sounds about right.”

They enjoy a quiet moment. Angel resumes eating his dinner as Alastor attempts to. The music continues, a medley of love songs amalgamated into a harmonious, legato piece. He finally stamps the roiling in his stomach to a manageable boil, when Angel says, apropos of nothing:

“Ya know, I don’t even know why I was so hung up on marriage!”

Alastor chokes. The people next to them curl their lips in disgust.

“Marriage,” Angel murmurs, staring down at his wine glass. He chuckles softly. “Ain’t that silly.”

The firelight flickers in Angel’s eyes. Its dancing flame is mesmerizing, but that could also just be the glare from his glasses. The shadows paint smudged strokes along the contours of his face, rounding his cheeks even further.

Alastor opens his mouth to speak, to say anything, when the door splits and cracks.

Aided by a sonic boom, it splinters. Wooden projectiles hurtle across the room and lodge in the wall.

Pandemonium erupts.

The screams are deafening.

Alastor shoots to his feet, flips over the table, and yanks Angel down to the floor. He shoves him down and shields his prone body with his. He automatically dips his hand in his pockets.

It’s unnecessary.

Angel jabs the handle of the knife into his palm.

Alastor could kiss him, so he does.

A familiar voice shrieks in his ear. “God fuckin’ dammit, ya pervs! Pick the time! The time!”

Alastor sighs against his lips. Grudgingly, he turns to Vox.

“Have you any extra vests on you?”

* * *

The world, as usual, is conspiring against Alastor.

It, predictably, starts with gunfire.

And an actual fire.

Now, Alastor usually doesn’t celebrate Valentine’s Day, so he is well out of his depth, but he doesn’t think that it’s meant to be celebrated with such a literal _bang_.

But he could be wrong.

If Alastor were in possession of his camera right now, he’d capture the priceless look on Angel’s face.

“What the _fuck_?”

Maybe not the right sort of price he was aiming for, but well. Needs must.

And apparently, firearms.

Vox tosses one to Angel, who snatches it mid-air and whistles (“UMPs? Nice!”). Alastor kicks the table to its side and spoons around Angel, effectively shielding him from the stray bullets.

“Looks like your ex and Belial are at it again. Either that or they’re conspiring against me for some _unknown reason_ ,” he hisses, addressing Angel while glaring at Vox. The man, who apparently materialized out of nowhere, settles in beside them behind their makeshift barricade.

“Fuck you, dickhead! I ain’t got nothin’ to do with this.” Bullets whiz past their heads. “God fuckin’ dammit! These pricks just keep comin’! Fuckin’ roaches, the whole goddamn lot of them!”

He hands Alastor a vest.

“Give it to Angel,” he grits out.

“What? No, Al-”

“Angel,” he says. His boyfriend balks at the sharpened edge. “Put this over your dress. Now.”

Vox shrugs. He pitches it to Angel, who reluctantly obeys. He scowls at Alastor the entire time. Alastor, for his part, ignores him.

“What the hell is this about?’ he snarls at Vox.

The man’s shoulders slump. He scratches his nape. “A partnership,” he admits. “Enacted solely to piss ya off. Fuck. That phone call earlier should’ve been warnin’ enough. So Val _might_ have broken into my phone and read some of our texts. Guess he figured out where you guys were gonna celebrate tonight. And Belial just wants revenge for his brother.”

Alastor cranes his neck over the upturned table.

Sheer bedlam.

Fantastic, he thinks, reloading his firearm. The onus is his.

Vox’s shoulder jabs into his arm. “What the fuck are we goin’ to do? Kill all of them?”

Alastor sneers. “You absolute moron. Was math your Achille’s heel in school or did that last concussion addle what was left of your brain?”

“Al’s right, Vox. There’s like ten of them, and like, fuckin’ three of us!”

“Eh, we’ve fought against worse odds. Your dildo’s dead weight, anyway. Me an’ Rosie pretty much carry the show.”

Alastor lurches. Angel grabs his wrists before he strangles his manager. Again.

An irritating voice grates over the din. “Alastor! Come out, asshole! We know where you are! Well, generally!” A cough. “Honestly, we’re all pretty sure you’re behind one of those tables, or at least the bar!”

Angel stiffens at the sound. Alastor’s hands fall from his grasp. Vox is too busy darting glances over the makeshift barricade to notice, but Alastor scrutinizes his boyfriend’s blank face.

The sound that escapes his lips is blistering in its chill.

“That one is fuckin’ mine,” he whispers.

Both Alastor and Vox exchange bewildered looks. It’s not Valentino, not by a long shot, since the deviant hardly does his own dirty work, but the steel chord traversing past Angel’s vocal cords and into the desolate space between their rabbit-quick heartbeats is tell-tale enough. Alastor may not understand Angel’s incentive, but he trusts his rage.

He nudges Vox.

“Two on the left, next to the bar. How many on the right?”

Vox shrugs. “Center, I’m guessin’ four, but scattered. Three to four on the right, then.” He prods Alastor’s side with the butt of his gun. “Thought I was shit at math, dickface?”

Alastor rolls his eyes. “I’m assuming you can count on one hand. Or is that wishful thinking?”

“Vox, I swear to fuck, if ya don’t stop flirtin’ with my boyfriend, I’m unloadin’ this in your ass.”

“Roger, ya jealous prick.” Bullets scream past their bulwark. Warnings. A deliberate bullet blasts through the wood, inches from Vox’s face. He curses. Shards fly from the exit point like ballistic missiles.

On instinct, Alastor hooks his face with the crook of his elbow and yanks Vox down to his chest.

After a prolonged skipped heartbeat and near heart attack:

“I’m so gonna kill ya, Voxxie.”

“Duly fuckin’ noted,” he mumbles into the space between Alastor’s chest and Angel’s shoulder.

“I have an idea.”

Vox yanks his head free from his harrowing confines. “What?” he echoes, simultaneously with Angel.

Alastor sighs, tapping his temples to relieve the pressure. Predictably, it does nothing. Failing that, he mutters his rudimentary plan to his skeptical audience. Angel raises a brow.

“So, ya gonna kill him, babe? The head honcho?” He blows a pink strand away from his face. “Looks to me that you’d need to get closer.”

“Right. Hopefully doing so will rob the morons of their morale. I’m not wedded to the idea, but it’s our best bet. Any other novel suggestions?”

“Yeah. Pick me. How the flyin’ _fuck_ are we supposed to fight off everyone else? Don’t know about you, but I’d rather not meet my goddamn maker today. I got dry cleanin’ to pick up.”

Alastor sagely nods. “I also need to gather my dry cleaning from the local. The stain from last week was atrocious.”

“Right? Jesus, I thought blood was bad. But curry? Un-fuckin’-believable.”

Angel looks ready to commit double homicide. “If ya dumb shits don’t shut the fuck about dry cleanin’, I swear, I’m offin’ ya both!”

Vox snorts. “We need to get rid of most of them before they fuck us.” He nudges Alastor. “Are ya sure he’ll hear ya out?”

“Eighty-twenty odds.”

It’s not exactly a long-shot.

Alastor knows the man, and if there’s one thing that they all have in common, it’s brain-dead goons and a penchant for theatrics. Something about being the smartest man in the room and all that jazz. This one, in particular, is addicted to the sound of his own voice. A trait Alastor can unfortunately relate to.

In any case, he’s exactly the type to eschew assured victory for a song and dance.

Mano-a-mano.

“Either way, we won’t get anywhere if we don’t try this, you absolute simpleton. We’re hopelessly outnumbered.”

They all share a charged look.

Finally, Angel and Vox nod. The gun drops from his grip as Angel smoothly catches it.

“Cover me.”

He leaps to his feet, and sprints towards the bar top in front of them. The bullets hiss past him, missing him by millimeters. The men guarding it whip around towards Alastor. As if in slow motion, they crash to the ground as Angel and Vox empty the magazines into their legs. His knees drop to the floor as he skids behind the bar. The air squeezes forcibly out of his lungs from the mad dash. He gasps, catching the remnants of breath.

Two down, eight to go.

“Fuck, wait! One goddamn minute!” Vox yells. “Ceasefire!”

Alastor stands up. He slowly raises his hands. After a bated breath or two, the man holds up the universal indication of ceasefire. Nevertheless, a bullet whistles past his ear. Thank god for suppressors, Alastor thinks as he trots forward.

“Can we reschedule this? I’m due for something important, tonight.”

“Alastor,” the man drawls, lip curling in a sneer.

“Ba’al.”

“So what’s this all about? You’re out-numbered, and I was offered an exorbitant amount for your head.”

Alastor sighs. “I’d rather not elaborate.”

“Try me.”

He growls but lowers his voice to a rumble. “ _Fine_. If you must know, I’m to propose.”

Ba’al frowns. “Not a good enough reason, buddy. And no offense, but _that_ guy?” He tilts his head towards the general vicinity from whence he came. Specifically, Vox’s position.

Alastor snarls. He scribbles down a mental note to kill them all, out of sheer principle.

“Good god, man! No! And offense _taken_! How dare you? My much more attractive boyfriend, were he to accept, would pass the litmus test with flying colors, unlike that dunce!”

“What’s he sayin’?” barks Vox to Angel, who’s shielded behind the table. He ostensibly replies that it’s impossible for him to parse the words and that Vox should know because he’s closer and can actually hear for shit, and the imbecile takes a moment to shout, “Fuck you, asshole! I’m a goddamn catch!”

Alastor’s eye twitches. Ba’al takes no heed at the warning. He gathers phlegm from his lungs to the back of his throat and hacks.

“Goddamn you,” he spits. The glob lands near his foot.

Alastor’s smile widens.

Exponentially.

“Oh, my dear,” he croons. “There is no god. Just me.”

Ba’al sneers. He snaps his fingers, a gesture eerily reminiscent of Valentino’s, which sets Alastor’s teeth on edge and raises his hackles.

“Ah, that’s right,” he says. “You’re fucking Val’s ex-bitch, aren’t you? _Angel Dust_. Now, that name rings a bell.”

Alastor leans forward, baring his canines. “Don’t mistake my benevolence for weakness. It hasn’t bode well in the past.”

The man, unsurprisingly, jeers. “Tell you what. You can watch your slutty little trap bleed out into the carpet after we finish with him. Then, you can follow him to hell. Fair?”

Ah, Alastor thinks as his vision blurs and static hisses in his ears.

There it is.

His berserker rage.

Since meeting Angel, Alastor has incrementally adjusted his Manichaean purview into something more malleable. He’s since allowed shades of grey to infiltrate his philosophy, which may have handicapped the beast to complacency. But ravenous starvation and sheer, absolute ennui only served to stoke its will to the brink. A prisoner, hellbent on destructive freedom, finally set free.

_Rule one: Never agitate a predator._

“Fair,” he garbles.

The man’s eyes widen. The smugness drains from his face.

Sporting his signature macabre smile, Alastor moves.

He shatters the chains, freeing it.

The beast charges.

The man leaps, but Alastor lunges. He sinks the blade into the yielding flesh. It knicks against bone. The pressure shoots up his arm like wildfire, but Alastor shoves all his weight until the marrow cracks and splinters into fragments. He twists.

The man’s arm flies up in a futile, last-ditch death rattle attempt. Alastor yanks the blade out. Tarry blood spurts onto the floor and sprays onto the upturned tablecloths. Red against stark white. Alastor dives again, evading the oncoming blow with a sharp twist of his torso. It glances off his bicep instead. His knife chews into the abdomen, gliding neatly between sinew.

He saws the man’s stomach open.

It splits like a juice bag.

Alastor carves his signature curve as best as he can, punctuated by serrations from jerky movements.

A smile.

The contents burst out in painted splatters across the carpet. The beast watches with unrestrained glee as the man attempts to scoop up his innards and shovel them back inside. It’s such an exciting, slippery affair.

Eventually, he meets the floor.

Inevitably, they all do.

He bends down. Alastor grabs a fistful of the man’s hair. He groans as Alastor leans in, lips scandalously close, almost kissing his ear. Blood bubbles from his parted mouth.

“I’d tell you to inform Belial and Valentino that they’re next, but I’m afraid you won’t last that long.”

He releases his head to address the others. He projects his voice, his grin fixed on the rapidly fading man.

“No chance for recourse, or regress now. I’m afraid you wasted that the minute you threatened my partner. _Regret_ , though, well. You’ve got some time to contemplate that. About, oh, five minutes, I’d say.”

The remaining goons dart nervous glances at their fallen comrades. Their boss wheezes, clutching his split stomach, hand drenched in blood and draped in the thick ropes of his intestines. They ooze out from between his fingers like squirting linked sausages.

Just like that, Alastor finds his appetite returning. He licks his lips.

Most-and that’s putting it generously-of the men _scuttle_ away.

Angel’s head pokes out of the blockade. The muzzle of a submachine gun follows, and a torrent of bullets rip into two of the goon’s legs. They hit the floor, howling. One tries to scramble away. The man from earlier, spouting all those fancy words and upstart bravado. With a determination bordering on manic ferocity, Angel leaps out and grabs his victim by the collar. He drags him down. Vox fires at the retreating men.

Prompted by some misguided bravery, several of the hired hands have an apparent change of heart. Before they can riddle him with bullets, Alastor bounds away, leaps over the debris, and slides to a grinding stop behind the table.

“Holy shit, Radio. What’d ya tell him?”

In between rapid chest heaves, he snorts. “The truth.”

“Yeah? What’d that cost ya?”

He hums, reloading. The magazine slides in with a click. He flips his arm. The watch face gleams up at him, reflecting off his glasses.

“Absolutely nothing.” He leaps up, cocks his gun, aims-

The bullets sing across the room, busting into a man’s skull and forcing itself out a fleshy exit. Everything is bathed in the staccato rat-a-tat of machine gunfire. Blood and bone fragments spray and splatter into the wall. Someone screams.

Alastor beams.

“Ah, Rosie! Just in time!”

She fires off several, dead-accurate shots. The rest of the men drop to the floor like flies. Soon, the only one left alive besides Ba’al is the one Angel strangles in a crushing grip.

She sashays over to them, scrunching her face as she gingerly steps over the pools of ichorous viscera.

“You said there were at least twenty,” she says in lieu of a greeting. “This is what you deigned to summon me for?”

“I may have embellished a little,” he admits, dusting off his shirt. Primly, she touches her cheek to his before doing the same to Vox. She sniffs at Angel and his quarry. He flips her off in response.

Alastor pouts. “I do wish you’d leave me the money shot”-“What the fuck, that’s not what that means, ya dickhead,” Vox shouts-“from time to time, dear.” He sighs, surveying the damage. The other diners crawl out from their hiding spots.

“What a way to spoil my fun.”

She turns, ignoring Vox’s useless sputtering. “Alastor, it’s bad luck to do so, at least tonight. Save the homicidal rampage for the honeymoon.”

She’s referring to the not-quite-dead man in the center of the room. Ba’al fruitlessly attempts to speak, only to choke further on red-tinted drool.

Someone gasps to his left, and it belongs to the man that Angel currently crushes in a chokehold. Correction: leghold. His thighs strangle the goon’s neck while he bats the man’s head in with a broken chair leg. The man thrashes but to no real avail. It’s as futile as being trapped in a spiderweb.

Envy wells up inside Alastor’s chest.

Not at the battering, mind. But the thigh smothering is rather enticing.

He discreetly tries to hide his excitement and fails, to one person’s chagrin.

“Are ya getting’ _hard_ , ya fuckin’ weirdo pervert? What in the fuck is wrong with ya?”

Alastor shrugs. He’s not quite sure, himself.

A whimper, then a wet gurgle.

“Are ya gonna put him outta his misery? It’s gettin’ annoyin’, listenin’ to him choke on his own blood.”

“He can fuckin’ rot,” Alastor answers. If Vox or Rosie find his use of the expletive or his slide into his creole accent strange, they don’t remark upon it.

He kneels at Angel’s side.

“Angel,” he murmurs. “Stop.”

He won’t, _can’t_ , allow him to brandish blood on his hands. An eye, a finger, a limb; it’s all the same to Alastor. Good riddance. But a life is more than what he’s willing to pay.

Nothing is worth Angel’s soul.

Reluctantly, Angel releases the man. From this angle, he looks like he’d live, albeit with substantial brain damage, but they can’t risk that. He stretches out his hand. Angel accepts it and allows Alastor to pull him off the floor and into his arms.

Vox retches as they kiss.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my dear,” he coos.

Angel straightens his collar, sighing at the bloodstains.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, babe,” he whispers into Alastor’s mouth. He traces his tongue over Alastor’s sharp canines.

“Love ya, Al.”

Rosie makes a noncommittal noise. Alastor envisions her raised brow without bothering to look. Vox gestures rudely. The surviving diners gawk at them.

But Alastor-

Well.

Alastor can’t bring himself to mind.

* * *

He guides Angel to the exit.

Rosie barked orders at the stragglers, who blindly followed them. They high-tailed it to the exits, including the newly minted one near the former door. As soon as the last one squeezes through the slats, she lifts her chin in indication.

Alastor nods to Vox, who bitches under his breath. He groans as he stands, stretching. He reloads the gun.

Vox points it at the man’s head.

Rosie does the same to Ba’al.

Alastor smiles. He turns around and kicks open what was left of the door, hand splayed over Angel’s back. He whistles a jaunty tune.

The shots ring in the distance.

“Now, darling, where were we?”

Angel smirks, seemingly unfazed at the acute turn of events. “Ya wanted to take me somewhere private? To have your way with me, hopefully?”

The adrenaline sluices from his veins as common sense bolts past and catches up with his brain. His hands, which were still as the grave during the skirmish, tremble now as his heart rate escalates. His breath quickens. It’s blatant enough that Angel notices the discrepancy.

He frowns and stops walking. Their joined hands swing between them. “Babe? Are you all right?”

“Never better,” Alastor lies through clenched teeth.

“Oh,” Angel says. In an uncharacteristic move, he drops the subject. His teeth chatter. Alarmed, Alastor realizes that he’s shivering. He removes his suit jacket, thankfully unmarred by blood, and drapes it over Angel’s shoulders.

On instinct, Angel seeks out Alastor’s hand once again. “Thanks, babe.”

“My pleasure,” he says, meaning it entirely.

He refocuses on the matter at hand. After that fiasco, Alastor is sure that the evening’s plans are dashed. He can’t very well pop the question now. Their dinner lay in shambles back at the restaurant, as well as the remains of their night. But, everything hinges on today. Or does it? Maybe he can take a rain check for another, more felicitous time…

_No._

The niggling thought in the recesses of his mind is this: if not now, then when?

He teeters on the border of sanity and delirium. His insides churn and curdle. But before what’s left of his sense returns to him, Angel speaks first.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he mumbles.

Alastor’s head snaps up.

“What?”

“Back there. Y’know, with Aym.” At Alastor’s quizzical look, he elaborates.

“One of Val’s guys. He used to wait for me to get fucked up, then…”

He trails off, aiming for obtuse, but Alastor fills in the blanks. The beast howls, rising from its slumber. It batters its body against the confines of its prison. A possessive rage ignites in his belly.

Copper blooms in his mouth. “I wish you would’ve informed me of this earlier. I would have relished in performing the honors.”

Angel’s lips quirk up. His hand clenches around Alastor’s tremulous fingers. “Nah, babe. Vox owes me. Besides,” he says, nudging his shoulder, “it’s _your_ soul we’re plannin’ on savin’, right?”

Alastor pauses, mid-step. He stares down at his oxfords. “Not at the expense of yours,” he says, quietly.

Neither of them say anything. For a while, only the crunch of gravel and the night’s nocturnal lullabies suffuse the air. A sea-salted breeze wraps around their huddled torsos. Alastor tightens his grip around Angel’s shivering waist. Their feet, propelled by their lost musings, stop at the end of the world.

The sea stretches beyond the pier, beckoning.

The sky, its cosmic, twinkling reflection.

Water sloshes beneath their feet, under the shoddy planks, where it winds serpentine around the thick wooden pillars jutting out from the surf. It’s cooler where they stand, in the space that delineates the border between two vastly different worlds. Or three, counting the stars. Angel watches the rhythmic undulation in the waves.

Alastor watches Angel.

His focus always veers back to his metaphorical due north, and invariably lands back to Angel.

His heart, his home.

It’s now or never.

He releases Angel’s waist. He steps back. One step.

Two.

Alastor’s knee hits the ground.

Angel startles. He blinks, then looks down.

“What,” Angel breathes. His chest rapidly hitches with paroxysmal gasps of breath.

“What the fuck,” he repeats. His lip wobbles as he sways on hobbling ankles. From Alastor’s vantage point, he looks nothing short of resplendent. His mind, however, fails him. A billion disjointed thoughts scream through his head, colliding together and warping into fragmented shards.

_I know I’m far from perfect-_

_I just enjoy spending time with you-_

_You don’t need to shoulder everything, anymore-_

_You don’t need to go at it alone-_

_I’d like to be that person for you, if you’ll have me-_

_You’ve made life so bearable, and worth living again-_

For the first time in Alastor’s life, his tongue ties. He gropes uselessly for words that evade him. His well-stocked arsenal is empty. Bone dry.

So instead, he surrenders to instinct.

To truth.

“I love you.”

Perhaps Angel and all those dead poets were right.

Perhaps it is as simple as that.

Call it courage, call it insanity. Alastor takes a breath and jumps.

“Anthony, will you marry me?”

Time digs its heels in and grinds to a halt. Alastor cannot hear anything, not static, not music, not the ocean, but only his thunderous pulse in his ears.

A heartbeat passes.

Silence.

Another.

Angel remains silent, head bowed.

Alastor shuts his eyes.

It’s a legitimate answer.

He slumps. Woodenly, he closes the box. Alastor sways as he rearranges and picks himself off the floor. And from the cobwebbed depths of his ravaged mind. He struggles with the clamoring in his emptying chest; the constriction cousin to devastation.

How could he have expected anything more?

The night _was_ ruined. It was silly of him to pull the trigger, in more ways than one. Even so, Angel deserves more. So much more than he could ever possibly hope to give him.

After all, there’s rage in Alastor, too much, interspersed with sorrow and love.

And this, this is familiar. This is what he expected, deep down. Anything more would have been a far-fetched pipe dream.

Nothing more, nothing less.

“That’s perfectly fine, darling. And quite foolish of me. I shouldn’t have assumed-”

“Alastor.”

He pauses at the tone. He looks up from his wringing hands.

“Yes.”

Without warning, the blood gushes back inside Alastor’s ears and surges to his chest. It zips through the network of veins and spills into the pressurized chamber of that swiftly reviving organ. Like monochrome rushing into technicolor. The whiplash causes him to tilt sideways. Angel’s hands shoot out to keep him from falling into the sea.

He regains his bearings as soon as he catches his breath. He’s never dreamed this or dared to.

Maybe, he thinks, the delineation doesn’t exist. Maybe this moment, right here, is the nexus of all three worlds.

Of everything.

Angel leaps into his arms.

Alastor catches him with ease.

He barrels into his chest, wrapping his legs around Alastor’s waist. Alastor’s hands come down to support him, anchoring him in place. Angel’s hands shoot up to cradle his face, reverently.

Angel is held aloft in Alastor’s arms, under a kaleidoscope of true constellations.

_Déjà vu._

Alastor has never whooped before in his life.

He spins them on unsteady feet.

And does just that.

He urgently presses his lips to Angel’s, as if he’ll disappear with the morning light.

He tastes like fire.

“Yes, yes, yes.”

It sounds like a hymn.

* * *

“Question,” Angel says, lounging on Alastor’s body like he owns it.

He does.

“What were ya goin’ to do if I said no?”

Alastor shiftily looks away, consolidating his attention to the now-fascinating lamp on the bedside table. The hotel suite is swanky, all things considered, but some of the decorations leave much to be desired. Angel snaps his fingers under Alastor’s nose. Half-heartedly, he bites them.

“Ef wu mus’ gno,” he mumbles around a mouthful of Angel, before reluctantly releasing his fingers. Alastor hesitates, then confesses, “I baked consolation cakes.”

“What-”

“Dear, you know I-”

“No, lemme finish.” He pauses for overdramatic effect. “The fuck.”

Alastor glares, then chomps down again. Angel wiggles his fingers and hooks Alastor’s cheek with one so it swells out like a chipmunk’s. With a defeatist warble, he spits them out.

“I stress bake! You _know_ this!”

Angel drapes his arm over his eyes. He cackles. The bed vibrates with his laughter.

Alastor crosses his arms. “Ask Husk to send you pictures. I’m sure he’s practically frothing at the mouth to do so.”

Angel flips over in a hot second, grabbing his phone. His thumbs fly over the screen. He turns to Alastor, ready to say something ridiculous, he’s sure, when it lights up with a notification.

“Oh my god.”

Alastor closes his eyes and resigns himself to his fate. To what, he’s unsure. Death?

“Does that one say, ‘Thank you for sayin’ yes’? With a goddamn smiley face? In frosting?”

Buttercream. But that’s neither here nor there.

“‘ _Sorry ya don’t wanna marry me’_?” Angel shakes with unnecessary hoots. He wipes his eyes.

Scratch that. Eternal torture is preferable.

“A cryin’ sad face emoji?”

Actually, both. Both are good.

Petulantly, Alastor flicks the barbell embedded in his nipple. It backfires. Angel moans instead. So Alastor flings the pillow over his own face and hopes it suffocates him in a timely manner. He’d prefer Angel’s thighs, but alas, beggars, choosers, and all that. He thanks his lucky stars that Charlie and Cherri got to the melancholic macarons first. And Niffty to the despondent donuts. He ignores Angel’s giggling apologies until his boyfriend-no, _fiancé_ -removes the pillow and replaces it with his bottom. Sighing, Alastor parts his lips.

And _licks_.

Later, Angel wheedles him into drawing them a bath. They relax, sinking into the spacious tub. Alastor brackets Angel between his legs, pressing his chest up against the glittering sluice of water and Angel’s back. He kisses the scattered freckles and moles between his shoulder blades.

“We have the room for two nights.”

Angel stares at his left hand before wiping his eyes with the right. The jewels twinkle in an incinerating flare.

“The night is almost over.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, it is.”

_It is._

They slowly make their way from the tub to the suite’s enclosed porch. Bundled in crisp sheets, they watch the dawn break across the dying night. Bands of tangerine marry with foam blues and bayou greens in gouache. Drunks stagger home beneath their suspended veranda, in a perpetual state of confusion as to whether the streaks of pinks and purples denote it as a sunrise or sunset. Alastor idly considers inviting Husk and a handful of their allies to share in their revelry after their stay while he plays with a lock of Angel’s hair. His fiancé, on the other hand, is incapable of peeling his eyes away at the sight.

It’s bewitching, he’s sure.

But Alastor isn’t paying it any mind.

Angel’s eyes reflect the morning hues, and his speckled cheeks are flushed with color. Something cosmic, akin to peace, settles over his face. He turns.

Alastor is blinded.

What else is new.

All the words spill out, the ones he was meant to say earlier.

Alastor is the happiest and most terrified that he’s ever been in his life. The craziest thing of all is that he knows that somehow, he and Angel will surpass this feeling in the future. And it’s in all the little, seemingly innocuous and insignificant things, from the most prosaic gestures to the grandiose. Like tucking in a shirt tag at the back of a nape, or the unconscious parting of lips at a careful offering of food. Like straightening a lapel before heading out into the wild, or slow dancing at the edge of the world.

Here it is, in all its glory:

Their love, divine.

* * *

Alastor thumbs through the resort’s brochure, intently studying the overly enthusiastic descriptions. A wayward sea breeze filters past the open doors and into the mess of blankets, ruffling Angel’s hair. He gazes at Alastor’s befuddled face, and at the way he chews the inside of his cheek. Struck with immense affection, he pokes a finger into the prominent dimple.

“Ya know what, babe? Outta all the guys that I’ve dated, you’re the only one who didn’t wanna change me.”

Alastor wrinkles his nose. “Change you? Why on earth would anyone want to do that?”

Angel hums. Instead of answering, he wraps his arms around Alastor and pulls him close. Tight.

He’s been thinking about mortality lately. And how it all fits in this strange, abyssal precipice between life and death. Heaven and hell. Religion and existence.

If any of it mattered, in the end.

“All my exes, apparently. They said that no one would wanna marry someone like me. ‘Make a housewife outta a whore’,” he quotes, caustic.

Alastor says nothing for a stinging moment. Then, his hands slither up and grab onto his forearms, anchoring him. His hair tickles Angel’s chin.

“Anthony,” he says, without the ever-present jovial teasing in his tone, “they don’t get to tell you if you’re worthy or not. None of us do.”

Angel suppresses a sob, but barely. The pitching of his chest gives away the game.

“Take it from me,” he murmurs, deft finger tracing his name into Angel’s arm. A litany of Alastors, looping invisibly across his skin.

“Only you get to decide that.”

It’s the cadence of his voice; the lilting lyrical medium he employs rising to a crescendo at the climax of his stories. That underlying thread binding it all, their stories, irrevocably together.

He loves Alastor, he does.

But there’s something else there that he experiences with him, cocooned inside their blankets and between hushed inhalations, that he hasn’t felt for years.

_Safe._

Anthony feels safe.

He floats, high and buoyant above them. This time, it’s not the drugs infiltrating his bloodstream, or the disassociation leeching worry from his body. His aching chest splits wide open. The numbness can’t reach him, here. He’s awash in a thunderstorm of sensation, overwhelming him like a monstrous wave curling its peak.

It’s the antithesis of drugs. It’s the opposite of false hope and artificial pleasure.

Angel is deliriously, singularly happy.

And it is greater and more profound than any of the phenomena in the natural world.

In the warm, thin rays of morning, the ring sparkles. Angel holds it up to the light in awe.

Three diamonds. The largest stone-three carats, from what Alastor said; Angel gleefully doesn’t give a fuck-set in the middle, bedecked by dual, smaller pink gems on each side. The facets reflect in brilliant bursts. The band is gorgeous, and it must have cost a fortune, but Angel keeps the speculation to himself. He knows how Alastor gets about money, and either way, it doesn’t matter.

He can’t wait to get back to their house, so he can reveal the break-in-case-of-emergency ring he tucked away for Alastor if he changed his mind.

But for now, Angel is ebullient and elated and so, so much in love.

Tomorrow can wait.

For now, _today_ , everything is perfect.

His lips search out Alastor’s. They share quiet breaths as the world wakes up around them.

The earth spins in its continuous orbit; each dawn brighter than the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Proposal scene art by the stupendous Lena Vicky](https://twitter.com/lena_vickx/status/1363618894120972288)!!!
> 
> 1\. Cheers to Galaw/Scratch for coming up with the ring design so it wasn’t just described as “bedazzled” by the BeDazzler ™
> 
> 2\. A&A&V: suppressed UMP45s, Rosie: suppressed MAC-10. Thanks, R, for the gun input.
> 
> 3\. RIP Alastor’s wallet. Also, Alastor is peak Pig!PrinceMerkimer: "Saaaaad."


End file.
